


Her Majesty

by paraduxks



Series: hot takes, hetalia edition [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Mild Humor, Philosophy, Romantic Friendship, Self-Reflection, Slow Burn, intentionally purple prose, kinda fluffy? idk, some things in this are pilfered from various media i enjoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:00:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26514832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paraduxks/pseuds/paraduxks
Summary: “Love has many things to teach you about being human. I find that sometimes I forget, but what are we if not men? I find the alternative horrifying, beyond the comprehension of even our best philosophers, and prefer to imagine I am a man. Sex is love, cheri, and what is more human than that?"Arthur understood that more than anything he’d heard before.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Series: hot takes, hetalia edition [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1927894
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34





	Her Majesty

**Author's Note:**

> this one shot is something ive been cooking up in my brain for a while now, and this is basically just how i see France and England's relationship. it is also the first in a series of similar shorts that are my thoughts on hetalia characters and their relationships with each other, the world, and history. the title of this particular story is taken from the beatles song of the same name, which i listened to several times while writing this. an additional thanks to cupofkey for beta reading.

Paris, 1999

Dinner was a blur of spectacular food and wine, and Arthur found himself wishing he’d paid greater attention to his consumption when, at about eight, he leaned back in his chair with a cigarette between his fingers. His belt was tight around his waist and his cheeks felt warm, though he was unsure if that was due to the wine, the food, or their location on a balcony. Francis was enchanting as usual, though Arthur prided himself on evading flirtations. Thwarting such advances was a skill only he believed he possessed. Their dinner was a love letter, the wine a window into the past. The bottle read 1989, and each sip transported Arthur back a decade. Even the cigarettes the pair smoked were old. They tasted like power, the memory of which stung a touch. 

The pair smoked their cigarettes in silence. Speaking might clog the air, or cause Francis to move such that the sun stopped turning his hair golden. Arthur wouldn't know what to say anyhow. He never did, at least not around Francis. They were quite the pair— constant bickering and murder attempts and centuries of violence, and, every so often, compassion. Fifteen or twenty hundred odd years of knowing each other could do that to anyone, though. After all that time, they’d mellowed. Arthur believed himself a much calmer man than he used to be, and he could say the same of his companion- most of the time. 

By the time Francis finished his first cigarette, Arthur was onto his third, and the skies of Paris were awash with the pink and orange of the setting sun. Arthur dipped a finger into his collar, pulled his shirt away from his skin. How Francis could handle leaving the house with so few of his shirt buttons done was beyond him. How could he sit there with the knowledge that his chest hair, damp with sweat, peeked out of his shirt? Unless he didn't know, of course- but how could he not? Francis was in love with himself first, and if he was not suitably gorgeous, he refused to leave the house. And that hair on his chest certainly was gorgeous- A couple shades darker than the hair on his head, and curlier. Just enough peeked out that it left something to the imagination- But Arthur was too busy pretending he didn't know the same was true of Francis’ waistband to imagine. 

Francis turned his eyes away from the setting sun. The corners of his lips ticked up when he laid eyes on Arthur, though not enough for it to be considered a smile. 

“Why the long face?” He asked in French, words muffled by the cigarette dangling from his lips.

“I’m fine,” Arthur retorted, just a bit too fast. As if to prove his point, he picked up a napkin from the middle of the table and placed it on his plate. 

“You look…glum. How unfortunate. I’d hope being in my presence would do something for you, but it seems not.” Arthur choked, but tried to pass it off as the smoke in his lungs acting amiss. He made a big show of swiping at any smoke lingering around his head, and took a long drink of his wine to smooth out his throat. 

“Being in your presence does nothing of the sort,” Arthur quipped. 

“How unfortunate,” Francis murmured, hurriedly, so that he would not have to wait as long before voicing his own opinions, “I think I am in love with the sunset.” 

Arthur rolled his eyes, because of course the frog had found another object for his affection. “It will never love you back.” 

“Perhaps not,” Francis said, glancing back at the white circle in the sky. “But then again, the sun makes the world look so soft. Even you,  _ England. _ ” 

Arthur dipped his head, mumbling, “Makes you look like a wanker. More than you manage by yourself.” 

“Oh, you wound me.” Francis lifted a wrist to his forehead, and clutched his chest with his other hand. Even so, a humorous smile graced his cheeks. Arthur only grunted in response and took another sip of wine. Thwarted by an empty glass, he reached for the bottle and poured himself another. 

“Anyway, before you so rudely insulted my love for the sun, I was about to say- Where might you like to go after dinner?” Arthur’s face shrivelled in confusion. Of what import were his thoughts on the matter? Francis made it sound like this was a partnership. 

“Don’ care.” Arthur shook his head for emphasis, “Someplace cooler.” 

“I have an apartment near here,” Francis said, as though they both didn't know he slept above a cafe, taking up a corner of a rather large intersection. The place was equipped with a small balcony, overlooking a side street and a graffiti covered wall, and always smelt of espresso.

“Lovely,” Arthur said, and planted his palms on the arms of his chair. He grunted as he pushed himself up. His knees were a bit creaky today, although maybe that could be chalked up to the weight gain from their meal. 

“You want to leave now?” Francis asked, bottom lip jutting out. The sight could’ve been endearing if he wasn't as greasy. 

“Quite. In case you hadn't noticed, it’s awfully warm out here.” But Parisian summers would do that to you- At least in this day and age, when every city was a pit of heat. Back when they were young, the world was such a cold and drab place- save the majesty of the night sky. Kids these days seldom ever saw the wonders just above them. It was quite a shame, where Arthur was concerned.

“How could I not notice? You are sweating like a pig, though you also ate like one, so perhaps the heat is less intense for me,” Francis said with a wink, twirling hair around his finger like a schoolgirl. 

“Excuse me!” Arthur yelled, attracting the attention of a nearby waiter. “If any of us is the pig here, it’s you and your- your little cooking obsession, and no matter where you are, you’re surrounded by decadent food-” 

Francis chuckled at that, poised as though he were about to speak, but took a drag off his cigarette first. “What else do you propose I should be surrounded by?” Arthur didn't actually have an answer for that, and felt his cheeks heat up accordingly. 

“Well, I- Um-” Francis opened his mouth, blowing a small puff of smoke into Arthur’s face.

“It’s okay, dear, decadence must be a foreign concept to you, given the way all your kids turned out.” 

“That was uncalled for,” Arthur grumbled, “And it’s not as though you did much better.” 

Francis gave a heavy sigh and nearly nodded, but managed to refrain from agreeing. Parenting was an intimate failure for both of them, which neither was quite ready to talk about yet. They seldom talked about anything that actually mattered to the world. 

“At least I didn't disfigure them with those  _ eyebrows _ like you did,” said Francis.

“ _ Mine don't speak French _ ,” Arthur challenged in English, crossing his arms as though it would make his point stronger. 

“They should learn.” Francis stood abruptly, smoothed his hair into a more presentable shape, and offered his arm, like a proper gentleman. “Shall we?” 

Arthur rolled his eyes. He held his arms out in front of him, then violently jerked his hands down towards his pockets. Though he fumbled with actually stuffing his hands away, it had the same effect of rendering him unable to take hold of Francis’ arm. Francis didn't seem bothered, and continued on his merry way. 

His hips swished as he walked, almost like a model. Perhaps he was trying to show off his pants- Dark blue jeans, high waisted, and not quite offensively baggy. They were just tight enough to show off the shape of his legs while still leaving something to the imagination. Of course, Arthur didn't have to imagine. He’d seen Francis naked more times than he cared to count. 

“ _ Lapin? _ Are you coming?” Francis paused in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame. Arthur shrugged, dragged his gaze up to meet Francis’. 

“‘Spose. Are you going to drag me all over the city on the way?” 

“Of course not,” He said, in a voice that implied  _ absolutely _ was the actual answer. 

“Fine,” Arthur grumbled. He could do with a walk around Paris anyway. It would help him digest, and he knew his way around well enough to steer Francis away from tourist traps. It was a habit of his- Francis was compelled to show off the beauty of his capital, not realizing that the loveliest streets in Paris were underpasses long since covered with graffiti. 

Francis led him off the balcony, through the second floor of the restaurant, and down a spiral staircase. The ground floor was more crowded with tables, necessitating more weaving around, in a quasi-dance with tables, waiters, and each other. Upon exiting the restaurant, the dance became more of a game, in which Francis would step away and Arthur would follow, only for Francis to encroach on his personal space, at which point he would slip away. By the time they arrived at Francis’ home, though, it turned into a full on game of tag- If tag were a contact sport. Arthur barely had time to worry about the dust and dirt adhering to his clothes with each tumble to the ground or into a building, as he became more intent on avenging himself. It was a game he knew by heart, the sort he was born to play. 

The door to Francis’ building was behind a coffee shop, something Arthur only remembered after hip-checking his beloved acquaintance into it. Brief sadness at the loss of his new sport affected him only momentarily, before Francis grasped him by the waist and pulled them together. 

“I seem to have won our little game,  _ petit canard _ ,” He said, in a tone that Arthur had a love-hate relationship with. 

“You’ve not,” Arthur grumbled, “I am-” He became briefly distracted by a hand leaving his waist, and a clicking sound that followed. “I am clearly the winner here, as I have you pinned to this door- Ah!” His whole weight had been on Francis, and now there was nothing. Butterflies sprang to his gut as they fell, nausea tapping him on the back as they hit the floor. 

“You- You bastard!” Arthur yelped, though he didn't have much to complain about. Francis was rather attractive from this angle, save his stupid face. And besides, what kind of asshole- Could he not have waited to open the door? How absolutely rude of him! 

“You are the bastard, between the two of us,” Francis said, “Really, what does anyone know of your father?” Were he less couth, Arthur would have considered spitting in his face. He was not appreciative of the notion Britannia had been some whore. 

“That was uncalled for.” 

“It’s what you deserve,  _ non _ ?” He tilted his head to the side, and though much of his face was in Arthur’s shadow- Rightfully so- a trace of sunlight crept in and made his skin shine.

“ _ Non _ ,” Arthur grumbled again. “Right, up we get.” He got to his feet with purpose, while Francis, the wanker, took his time, taking special care to face away from Arthur and roll his spine while he did.  _ I already know what your arse looks like, you needn’t show it off as you move about _ \- Is something Arthur could’ve said as they stood. Or as they climbed the stairs to Francis’ apartment. As they crammed themselves onto his Juliet balcony. Et cetera. He made no such comment, though, and perhaps it was politeness, but perhaps it was that he knew exactly what that arse looked and felt like. 

“So,” Francis said, pressing his shoulder into Arthur’s, as they stared at the small street below, “It feels a bit silly to bring it up, but the century is changing again soon.” 

“‘S a bit silly,” Arthur said, but only because he’d been thinking about the change as well. “Two thousand years.” 

“This past hundred has felt like two thousand all on its own,” Francis murmured gravely. Arthur couldn't agree more. How he’d changed- How both of them had changed. Fighting together for once, though Francis was a bit useless during the World Wars. He’d given up his colonies, the children he once promised he’d never have. Telecommunications, his new Queen, nuclear power. 

And how could he forget, that time Francis proposed marriage. Marriage to that man would take a toll on his body worse than losing all his children. Though if they were to be wed, the music would be unrivalled by anything created in the previous fourteen hundred years of his life. And though it felt like yesterday, Maggie Thatcher was finally out of office. 

“God help the twenty-first century,” Arthur mumbled, though if he recalled correctly, he’d said the same around a hundred years ago. “It’s a bit mad how we’ve all lasted this long. Back in the old days, if you’d said we’d be here today, I’d’ve thought you silly.” 

“It’s almost too silly a thing to believe,” Francis said, “Lord save us all. I suppose it is time to learn diplomacy, at least for you and I. It is my hope that the rest of the world will do the same, but…you know how Alfred can be.”

“He’s not alone in his warmongering habits,” Arthur said quickly. “And he’s us.” 

“Who else would he be? When I was his age, my hair ran red with blood. But so did everyone’s. None more than my uncle’s…I wonder what he’d make of this world.” 

“It’d be his,” Arthur said. “Man like Romulus? If ‘e lived, this’d be Italy.” 

Francis shuddered at that.“You are not wrong, though it pains me to say. I love that boy dearly, though I have no desire to be him.” 

“Not anymore, anyway,” Arthur chortled softly. 

“I wish I’d never landed on your shores,” Francis said drily, “Perhaps then your French would be better.” 

“Oh, what fault of mine is it the sexual habits of deceased kings?” 

“Fault, none. It is entirely your business, on the other hand.” 

“I care not for their sexual lives,” Arthur spat, disgusted. He glared down at his hands, gripping tightly the edge of the balcony. 

“Is that to say,” Francis turned, his body filling the rest of “You have never slept with one of your monarchs?” 

“Of course not!” Arthur shouted, hot with indignation, “Is that to say you have?” 

“Oh, I cannot remember,” Francis said with a wink, and tapped the corner of his mouth. “It’s been such a long time since I’ve had a king- Though I suppose you wouldn't know-”

“Who was it,” Arthur interrupted. He hadn’t the time for dancing about information anymore. That was for children and nations who had yet to discover that time was a valuable thing. 

“All of them,” Francis giggled, “And you seriously have not?” 

“You’re disgusting,” Arthur said, “How is it that you can be so vulgar?” 

“Simple, I care not for that which does not care for me,” Francis said, “Love has many things to teach you about being human. I find that sometimes I forget, but what are we if not men? I find the alternative horrifying, beyond the comprehension of even our best philosophers, and prefer to imagine I am a man. Sex is love,  _ cheri _ , and what is more human than that? We do not exist without them, and we are them, but we are not, yet…I don't know. Sometimes I wish I’d not live longer than fifty more years.” 

Arthur understood that more than anything he’d heard before. It wasn't common any of their kind conversed about their incredibly long lives- Arthur was of the opinion that they didn't need to, as they all knew exactly what the others would say. There was a strange comfort in hearing it. 

“It is a good thing, I suppose, that we have each other.” Francis nodded, and shifted his hand across the balcony railing. His fingers danced across one of Arthuer’s hands, spun it about in one of his own, and traced his fingers across Arthur’s palm and wrist. The touch was light, featherish, almost a tickle. Francis’ thumb paused against one of his veins, waiting for the pulse of Arthur’s heart. They shared slow heart rates as a virtue of their nationhood, for even if their bodies fell into poor shape, they would live on so long as people considered themselves  _ British _ or  _ French  _ or whatever other country there was. 

“Yes,” Arthur agreed, and at the pulse of his heart, Francis lifted his hand and pressed his lips to his wrist. Arthur shivered, body jerking uncontrollably at the intimacy of it all. He sighed when a kiss fell into his palm, and his knuckles. 

“I suppose it is good that you are with me.” The next time he sighed, it was against Francis’ mouth. It was at times like these he wished for mortality. Perhaps then he could have the sort of love humans seemed to have for each other. He’d not live long enough to see the barrier between love and hate break down before his eyes, and the world would be a calmer place. But Arthur hadn't the time to worry about that, because his hands were in Francis’ hair, and it was so soft, and Francis was so good at kissing- Good enough to trick Arthur into thinking he himself was an expert on the subject. 

When they broke apart, Arthur leaned their foreheads together. He still wasn't sure if kissing was the sort of thing they were meant to do. Did it violate the rules of their friendship, or was it even a friendship? He couldn't remember. He’d known Francis for too long. 

“Do you ever wish we were humans?” Arthur murmured, and felt Francis nod. “If we were, I might be stupid enough to fall in love with you.” 

“Love is never stupid. And what a shame that you are not currently in love with me.” 

“I’m glad I’m not. Could you imagine, being in love with, well, you? Well. I suppose you needn’t imagine,” Arthur said. Francis gasped in offense, though he couldn't rebut. 

“You see right through me,” He laughed, “Would you mind kissing me again? I’m afraid my lips are getting cold-” 

“Shut it,” Arthur grumbled, and leaned away, crossing his arms. “I would mind, actually, and I’m going inside now. I think- I think I am in the mood for a spot of tea.” Francis chortled, 

“When are you not!” Even so, he didn't complain when Arthur put the kettle on. They drank their tea on Francis’ couch, sharing it over the last dregs of the setting sun. The blue of night crept over them, just as it had nearly a million other times. Neither moved to turn on a light, for in the half-dark, Francis looked most himself. The light sweat coating his body no longer shined, and the hair on his chest looked dark. It was more apparent in his eyes how crushingly alone and ancient he was. If Arthur looked closely, he could make out a series of wrinkles spreading from the corners of his eyes. 

“We are old men,” he mused, tracing a finger around the rip of his mug. 

“We are,” Francis agreed, “It has been a curse and a pleasure to grow old at your side.” 

“Likewise,” Arthur said. He dipped a finger into his tea, but it proved still too hot to drink. “And I should like to say more on the matter, however, I need to visit the loo.” 

He got up without saying more, and led himself to Francis’ bathroom. He couldn't tell if the walls had been made to look old or if the past seventy years since the building’s construction had been that unkind to his home. Arthur wouldn’t know. His London apartment was in a much more modern building, one that wouldn't have cracks in the walls for years to come. 

As he returned to the common area, he removed his suit jacket. The air was far too heavy for such clothes. He had to agree with the modern youths when they asked why people in the past used to wear so much. At the time, it was the height of fashion, and a much colder world. Even so, Arthur had spent an inordinate amount of his life sweating. Kids these days had it easy, in terms of sweat- 

Looking straight ahead, Francis had unbuttoned his shirt all the way and tied his hair in a high bun. Somehow, he wore his age accurately. His devotion to his own beauty often disguised his body’s age, but there, lounging in his apartment during a heatwave, France never looked older. 

“You look old,” said Arthur. 

Francis jumped, pressing a hand to his chest, then lifting it to his forehead. “Don't startle me like that,  _ cheri _ !” He frowned, dropping the dramatic position as he heard what Arthur had said. “I look no older than four hundred, thank you very much.” He crossed his arms and pouted, perhaps to appear as a petulant child, though that was a far cry from reality. 

“You do,” Arthur said, joining him on the couch, “You are old. We’re old.” 

“True. Sometimes I wonder if I should go into the business of writing history books. If not to tell the truth, just to…air my mind.” A pause. “Arthur, do you think there’s a place for us in the future?” 

That question struck him deep. He’d wondered similar things himself over the years- Mostly they came from the overwhelming fear of conquest, or of his kids abandoning him. God forbid any more like Alfred came along. Losing Alfred, he imagined, was akin to being an apple under a peeler. But now, now that the world had switched tracks, he was unsure. 

“I can't say,” He answered truthfully, barely above a whisper. “It seems, to me, that we are gifted at scraping by. However if your query pertains to the future of nations, I cannot say. I’d like to assume we’ll survive, but I think just about anyone likes to assume that about themselves.” 

Francis nodded. “They do say it is the end of history.” 

“They’re wrong,” Arthur said, “Time continues to pass, anyway.” 

“It knows not how to do anything else,” Francis agreed, “Although your answer was lovely, Arthur, it was not to the question I asked. What is  _ our _ place in the future.” 

What a silly question. Arthur would remain Arthur and Francis would remain Francis. It was just the way of things. In lieu of answering, Arthur checked to see if his tea was cool enough. Upon finding that it was, he took a lengthy sip, even holding the mug in front of his face before putting it down.

“I hope it exists,” Arthur said slowly, “I hope- I should like to torment you for eternity.” Francis chuckled, and placed a hand atop Arthurs. Finagling occurred, and on the other side, they emerged with laced fingers. 

“That, my friend, would be an eternity well spent.” 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!
> 
> tumblr: urmomsstuntdouble.tumblr.com


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